


The Third Guest

by Fireplum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:28:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fireplum/pseuds/Fireplum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper is usually no competition for Sherlock in a battle of wills, but when an unexpected opponent joins the fray, he is met with surprising resistance. And there's nothing he loves more than a challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

From the moment she opens to find the two of them standing in front of her door, Molly knows that the crushing disappointment that robs her of breath will be less difficult to handle, in the end, than the pity of her guests. It’s there already, underneath the cheerful greetings, in John’s kind, doleful eyes and Mary’s sympathetic smile. They are standing apart, embarrassed, and it only makes Sherlock’s absence more glaring.

 

“Come in, come in,” Molly says, her voice more high-pitched than she intended, “so glad to see you…”

 

“Sorry, we’re a bit late - ”

 

“We brought some chocolates, we didn’t know which kind you liked, but… ”

 

John hands her a flat square box wrapped in shiny paper and Molly stands awkwardly with it in hand as they take off their coats, not looking at her. She is suddenly hit with the realisation of the sad spectacle she must make, dressed in a new outfit she painstakingly selected weeks before, in her tiny flat that has been vacuumed and scrubbed spotless for this occasion, all for a man who won’t be coming. Behind her the table looms, dressed for four with her best china and coloured cloth napkins she added as a nice touch, and the thought of clearing away his plate and his napkin (she already knew where he would be sitting, in front of John and next to her, as if the four of them were two couples on a date) racks her stomach with anguish.

 

“How about a drink before we start dinner?” Mary asks.

 

“Oh yes, good idea,” Molly replies. She rushes to the kitchen, sets the chocolate box down on the counter and scurries through her cupboards. “Let’s see, I have scotch, gin, no brandy, sorry…”

 

“Scotch will be fine,” John says. “Mary?”

 

“The same, please.”

 

“All right, I’ll get some glasses – you just go ahead and sit down, make yourselves at home…”

 

This gives her a blessed moment to force down the ball compressing her throat, in fact it’s likely that John and Mary did this on purpose. A wave of gratitude loosens the pain a little bit, and finally she leaves the kitchen with the bottle and glasses in hand.

 

“So, has Sherlock been called up at work?” Molly can’t help but asking after a few sips. She knows this isn’t the case or else John would be with him, but she has to know why, she can’t bear to imagine that he has no excuse, that he’d rather spend the evening alone in his armchair rather than honouring the invitation he accepted two months ago.

 

John squirms in his seat. “It’s, um – it’s a bit complicated, actually.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, an old friend of his is in town for the evening, just returned from abroad, and invited him to dinner. It was very last minute, and Sherlock’s terribly sorry, but - ”

 

“Oh, stop making excuses for him,” Mary interrupts. “You told me he was getting better at proper social behaviour but clearly he’s not.”

 

“I’m not making excuses, I’m telling the truth!”

 

“Come off it! If he had any decency at all he wouldn’t have barged out like that as soon as _she_ texted…”

 

“She?” Molly’s stomach plummets to new depths. “It’s an old girlfriend of his, then?”

 

“Not exactly,” John nearly squeaks. “She’s a… a…”

 

“I think the word you’re looking for is _prostitute_ , John.”

 

Molly nearly chokes on her drink.

 

“A dominatrix is not exactly a prostitute,” John argues lamely, “and in any event that’s not why Sherlock went to see her.”

 

But Mary, who usually treats Sherlock with the same benevolent patience as the pre-schoolers she takes care of, seems at her wits’ end this time. “The fact remains, Molly invited us eons ago and he blew it off at the last moment to dine with _a criminal_. Do you really think that’s _getting better_?”

 

A heavy silence falls on the room. Molly looks down into her glasses, rolls it between her palms.

 

“Well,” she starts, but can think of nothing to say.  Because there is nothing to say when the man you’ve loved consistently, devotedly, _desperately_ for three years prefers the company of a criminal to yours.

 

There is it again, that look of pity. Not that she blames them in the least. She doesn’t even blame Sherlock, although she is so angry with him and his oblivious, persistent dashing of her tiniest hopes she could scream. She blames herself for being so eager, so _stupid._ It would be easy now to fish for comforting words, but as a punishment to herself she forcefully pulls together and plasters on a smile.

 

“Well, shall we get on with dinner then?”

 

#

 

Later, when dinner is done and they’ve had coffee with the chocolates, John politely offers to do the washing up so Mary and Molly can be alone. They go out on the narrow balcony and Mary has a cigarette. She’s only an occasional smoker and enjoys it like a special treat, inhaling and exhaling the smoke calmly and intently, like she does everything else. Molly often wishes she were more like Mary, so sound and solid, who would never do anything as foolish as fall for a man like Sherlock Holmes. As she holds her cigarette to her lips, the simple diamond band on her finger glitters like a prize for her good sense.

 

“Of course, John’s told me all about Irene Adler,” she says. “They got involved in some nasty business with her last year. A sort of _femme fatale_ , you know the type – gets off by chewing people up and spitting them out.”

 

Molly pictures a woman with dark hair and thigh-high boots, lips and nails red as blood, perhaps a mink stool around her bare shoulders. She didn’t think Sherlock of all people would fall for that sort of blunt, almost grotesque sensuality but it goes to prove that in some things all men are the same, even those who are different.

 

“Sherlock helped her fake her own death, apparently,” Mary adds. “It’s positively rampant in their circle, isn’t it? Makes me wonder when John will have to -”

 

Molly’s strangled sob interrupts her. She tries to hold it in but it’s beyond her strength. To hear that Sherlock did the same thing for that woman as she did for him is somehow unbearable and the tears come flowing out all at once. Mary put an arm around her and pats her back while Molly cries onto her shoulder.

 

“Come on now, he’s not worth it. I know you love him, and he’s far from an ordinary man, I’ll give you that, but he’s got the sentimental maturity of a toddler. He could never make anyone happy.”

 

“I know, I know, it’s me, I’m just daft…”

 

“No, you’re not. You just have to get your mind off him – give it a little boost in the other direction, meet other fellows perhaps. Listen, I’ve been meaning to tell you, there’s this chap I know I think would be perfect for you. Bit of a sports fanatic but a lovely man and handsome too – he’s a colleague of my brother’s. Whenever you’re ready, I can set it up for you two to meet…”

 

Molly barely understands what Mary is saying but she nods vaguely, too exhausted to resist. She will do anything, _anything_ for this to stop.

 

“But what about _him_?” she whimpers. “I mean, he’ll keep coming to the morgue and asking things from me and I don’t think I’m strong enough to… to…”

 

Molly puts her hand in front of her mouth to muffle her sobs. Mary stays silent for a moment while she finishes her cigarette then crushes the stub on the railing. Little orange sparks fly out into the night.

 

“That is a problem,” she says. “But I think you can fix it.”

 

#

 

Before she goes to bed, Molly pulls her hair back into a braid and washes her face in the bathroom sink, wondering if tonight will make any difference at all. She has berated herself into moving on after each new humiliation and Sherlock has aborted each attempt at a fresh start with one look, one word spoken in his low, beautiful voice. The task before her is no less enormous this time around, no less discouraging.

 

Nonetheless, if she does what Mary has suggested, there might be a chance. She doesn’t particularly like it, but it’s clear her willpower alone won’t be enough. And the idea of Sherlock and this – this _woman_ , whoever she is… That too is new. She didn’t have that before. He made her believe he was immune to that sort of base instinct, and now she knows he was only immune to her.

 

Toby is curled up in the middle of her bed when she enters her room. She switches off her lamp, then goes to the window and watches the low shine of the lights in the surrounding streets. Lodged right next to the pain, she feels a hollowness at the thought of giving up on Sherlock, on the exquisite pleasure of looking into those pale, otherworldly eyes, on the thrilling pangs of hope and happiness his rare gestures and acknowledgments provoked. But she can’t handle those anymore. Her heart is too tender and they are too consuming and most importantly, Sherlock is too far removed to be anything but careless.


	2. Chapter 2

“Sherlock, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

 

John is trotting behind him but Sherlock doesn’t slow down. He’s in a wonderful mood, highly unusual when they’re between cases, and feeling energetic. It must be the weather, the faint scent of the coming spring pervading the air. Sherlock enjoys spring, it’s the season where dormant passions awaken from winter and produce murder and havoc. Or it might be that _invigorating_ evening he spent with the Woman a few days ago. Either way, he hopes Molly has some torsos in store, he’s in the mood for something dense and resilient.

 

“I’m serious, we shouldn’t -”

 

“I chose to ignore you the first time, John.”

 

“Well, I’m not going to stop until you hear me out!”

 

 “I don’t have to hear you out, I know your arguments. You think it’s rude to ask Molly for use of the morgue and the lab after I failed to show last weekend. You believe she will be angry at me and refuse to help.”

 

“Well then, why are you still going there?”

 

“Because I need to get on with my research. And I didn’t ask you to come with me, by the way.”

 

“You’re going to need moral support when you find yourself in front of a closed door,” John quips.

 

Sherlock stops in his tracks, now thoroughly exasperated. “And why would the door be closed? Honestly, John, I know you have a taste for dramatics but you should know by now how this particular dynamic works. I admit that I am sometimes unaware of the emotional distress I may cause Molly or, if I am aware, that it takes backseat to more important things, but she has shown time and time again to be a forgiving nature. If she is indeed miffed by Saturday’s incident, I will apologise - this should give you an indication that I _do_ listen to you on the subject of social niceties, by the way – and all will revert back to normal.”

 

 “Oh dear, this is going to be a disaster,” John says with a heavy sigh, but when Sherlock starts again he follows.

 

“Nonsense, John. Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

 

“All too well.”

 

It is only when they arrive at Barts that an inkling of doubt creeps in Sherlock’s mind, for Molly isn’t in the lab, or in the cold chamber. Instead they find a gangly young man with ginger hair filing some paperwork at the desk – _fresh out of med school, top marks, Internet fanatic, still lives with his mother_ , Sherlock analyses quickly, but the only thing he can’t understand is what he’s doing here. He checked the time before leaving Baker Street. It’s past seven. Molly should’ve started her shift already.

 

“Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson!” the young man exclaims when he sees them. “What a pleasant surprise! How can I help you?”

 

John frowns. “Do we know each other?”

 

“No, but I’m a fan – _huge_ fan of your blog. I’m Stuart – Doctor Stuart Graves, no pun intended. When I started working here last year I hoped I might run into you. It’s such a honour to meet you at last and - ”

 

Sherlock cuts him short. “Where’s Molly?”

 

“Oh, you mean Doctor Hooper? Well, they switched our schedules around – seniority issues, you know, she got her pick of the day shifts and I got stuck with the night job, but - ”

 

“What do you mean, _they switched your schedules around_?” Sherlock asks, looming over him.

 

The young doctor deflates slightly. “Well, she worked nights for a long time, so they gave her more convenient hours - ”

 

_Convenient hours_? His entire work routine may be thrown off course and this pathetic wisp of a man is talking to him about _convenience_? Sherlock feels like grabbing Doctor Stuart Graves by the collar and shaking him until all his pens fall out of his absurd pocket protector. John clears his throat.

 

“The thing is, my colleague and I sometimes use the lab at night when no one’s around,” he says,  “when it’s not too much of a bother.”

 

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” the young man replies. “Doctor Hooper’s told me all about your _special needs_ in the lab and the cold chamber. I can open up for you tonight if you want. It’s no problem at all – like I said, _huge_ fan.”

 

And then the poor sod winks, actually _winks_ at them. Sherlock is seconds away from throttling him but John mutters a thank you and drags him away by the arm.

 

“This is absurd!” Sherlock explodes once they’re outside. “Sherlock Holmes having to subject himself to petty schedule changes! Why on earth did Molly allow this? Has she so little backbone that she can’t stand up to the board of directors for the greater good?”

 

“Sherlock… “

 

“She has to ask them to switch her back, that’s all there is to it. I won’t have my work impaired by a bunch of bureaucrats who -”

 

“ _SHERLOCK!_ ”

 

He turns to John, startled. It’s not often he raises his voice like that. But John doesn’t seem angry. In fact, he seems remarkably calm. Remarkably unsurprised.

 

“You knew about this,” Sherlock states.

 

“I knew it was a possibility, yes.”

 

“How?”

 

“Come on, Sherlock, it’s not hard to figure out.”

 

A scenario of the only plausible explanation maps out immediately in his mind although the premise is rather absurd because it implies that Molly deliberately changed her hours behind his back. Hurt as though she may have been that he didn’t show up for dinner, that sort of extreme reaction doesn’t sound like her. It must have been suggested to her by someone else, someone close, whose opinion she would trust because of apparent success in matters of the heart…

 

“Mary,” Sherlock growls and stalks off in the direction of Baker Street with John in close pursuit.

 

 

#

 

When they arrive in Baker Street, Mary is curled up in a chair reading a magazine. She looks up briefly to flash John a smile and appears to be utterly unfazed by the fact that he’s completely out of breath and that Sherlock is glowering at her.

 

“You’re back awfully early, boys.”

 

“Mary,” Sherlock says in a warning tone, “did you tell Molly to change her schedule at Barts and take the day shifts?”

 

“I did,” she replies simply. “I take it she followed my advice.”

 

_Ah._ So this is why she didn’t bark at him when they returned from Molly’s place. John berated him, as always, but she was strangely silent. It turns out she was just biding her time.  

 

“And why would you do something like that?” he asks, struggling to keep his voice calm, because she is, after all, John’s fiancée and his partner is not only very territorial but also potentially lethal.

 

“Because she needs to get you out of her system, and she can’t do that if she sees you traipsing about her lab every other night.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Get me out of her system? What are you talking about?”

 

Mary sets the magazine down at last. “Look, Molly’s a charming woman and she deserves a good man who doesn’t treat her like a doormat, but so long as she’s pining over you she won’t get anywhere. That’s why she needs to not see you for a while.”

 

“Are you telling me the implausible chance that Molly Hooper will find a modicum of happiness is more important than _my work_?”

 

Mary doesn’t reply but shoots John an impatient glare that clearly says, _Haven’t you explained this to him already?_

 

“Sherlock, we’re talking about human feelings here,” John calmly intones. “You can’t just say things like that, remember?”

 

Mary gives a dry little laugh and returns to her magazine. “Besides, she told me the doctor taking over her shift would be more than happy to oblige you two, so I _really_ don’t know what you’re bitching about.”

 

Sherlock curls his hands into fists. In many ways, Mary is a vast improvement over John’s previous girlfriends. She’s unpretentious, relatively smart and remarkably devoid of any tendency to whine or cry or complain, except when it comes to body parts in the fridge. And although quarters are cramped while 221C is being renovated, the fact that she was willing to move in to Baker Street instead of shanghaiing John commands in itself the highest approval. However, on occasions such as these, she has the considerably irritating knack to make Sherlock feel like a small child throwing a tantrum.

 

“I don’t trust him,” he ends up blurting out. “He’s a complete stranger!”

 

“So was Molly the first time you met her. How is this any different?”

 

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak but the only thought forming in his mind is that _it just is_ and this is hardly a receivable argument. He tries to rationalise but comes at a standstill. Indeed, how is it so different? It’s not, not really, at least not for the purpose of his experimentations. He has no choice but to admit that Mary’s got a point.

 

But it is not _the_ point. The point is, he dislikes change, even more so when it is decided behind his back and worst of all for such ridiculous reasons. It is safer to retreat now - he won’t get anywhere with Mary and John will undoubtedly side with her - but it is not over yet. She had meddled with the wrong man.

 

“You’re right,” he says. “There’s nothing that suggests Doctor Stuart Graves is less competent or less docile than Molly is and so, as much as I loathe the idea, I’ll have to get used to him.”

 

Mary eyes him warily – she thinks this was too easy and she’s right, of course – but John seizes the chance to end the conversation.

 

“Well then, that’s settled. Good on you, Sherlock.”

 

“However, it’s only right that I make amends with Molly – _without_ going to see her, of course,” he adds before Mary can protest. “Any suggestions?”

 

 “You could send flowers with a card,” John says. “That’s always nice.”

 

“Flowers? Flowers imply either compassion or intimacy. She’s neither sick nor in mourning nor do I wish to engage in a romantic or sexual relationship with her. No, something else. How about a book? A cookbook, for example. The faint burnt odour on your clothes when you got back from dinner combined with the fact that you ate bigger quantities than usual at breakfast the next morning suggests that she is less than adequate in that area.”

 

John rolls his eyes. “Yes, the casserole was a bit overdone but a cookbook, Sherlock? Really?”

 

“Oh no, I think it’s a great idea,” Mary says. “And be sure to write all that on the card.”

 

Sherlock bristles. It’s sometimes hard to tell whether she’s being sarcastic or if she truly believes he’s that much of an idiot.

 

“Flowers it is, then.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

The restaurant is beige all over, from the tablecloths to the napkins to the lampshades. It’s meant to be relaxing but Molly feels uncomfortable. No one wearing a plaid dress with ruffled sleeves and a side-braid clipped with a bright red barrette belongs in this sort of place. Simon, however, blends right in, with his sandy hair and light brow eyes and nondescript suit.

 

“I know Lyle told Mary I was a sports fanatic, but I hardly thinks it’s fair, I mean – I play rugby twice a week with the lads and I enjoy watching it on telly but it’s just like any other pastime, isn’t it?”

 

Molly smiles in agreement and reaches for her wine glass in a continued attempt to calm her nerves, so far unsuccessfully. She’s always been terrible at first dates, and Simon clearly in another league than her usual flirtations – good-looking, friendly and steadily employed. Perhaps he’s out of hers, in fact. But no, she mustn’t think that. He’s the one who asked her out after they went for drinks with John and Mary, after all, so unless this is some awful prank…

 

“What do you do in your free time?”

 

_Help devastatingly handsome detectives smuggle body parts out of my morgue._ She blinks. That’s the wine starting to talk.

 

“I – I don’t have that much free time,” she replies. “But when I do, it’s the usual… curl up with a book, watch a movie, take a walk in the neighbourhood, you know. I’ve been cutting back on work, though,” she adds to uphold his interest, “so I’m thinking of taking up a sport, if you have any recommendations.”

 

“Well, all the girls at the office are crazy about Zumba right now. Apparently it’s quite fun and great for cardio - lots of positive energy all around. I think you’d like it.”

 

Molly vaguely remembers watching something about that on the news and she can’t think of anything worse than to dance and sweat in sync with thirty people under the orders of an overly enthusiastic instructor while some sort of mambo music blares from speakers, but she simply nods.

 

“I also jog sometimes, if you’d like to join me,” Simon offers, and he sounds like he’s trying to pass it as an afterthought. “It’s easier to motivate yourself if you’re not alone.”

 

“Oh, that’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

 

He gives a little laugh. “Don’t mention it. You’d be the one doing me a favour - it’s always nice to show off at the park with a pretty woman at your side.”

 

Molly laughs too and her nerves start to mellow at last. Simon is so easy-going and polite, he won’t say anything to make her uncomfortable, she won’t have to be on her guards all the time. It’s a nice change of pace.

 

But then just as she sets her knife and fork down after finishing her salad, her mobile phone chimes softly in her bag, indicating she has a text.  

 

She tenses a bit in her chair. She has less than fifteen people in her contact list, none of whom have a good reason to text her at 9 p.m on a Wednesday. A family member would call. Mary knows she’s on her date and wouldn’t bother her. That leaves two possibilities: Stuart with an emergency at the morgue, or the person she’s hoped to receive a text from every time she’s heard that little chime for the past three years. She brushes the thought away and decides to ignore it. If it is in fact an emergency, Stuart will call.

 

The waiter comes to take their plates and while Molly is thanking him the phone goes off again. She fiddles with her napkin, racking her brain for a conversation topic.

 

“So, how was your watercress soup?” she finally asks.

 

“Just fine. Aren’t you going to get that?”

 

He points towards her bag. Molly laughs nervously.

 

“Oh, I’ve always thought it was a bit rude to take out your phone at the table. It’s as if the person texting is more important than the person in front of you.”

 

“Don’t worry about it, I know it’s nothing like that. I’m a bit of tech addict myself, so I understand the need to check your messages. It drives me crazy when I get one and I don’t know what it is.”

 

As if to prove his point, he takes out his phone and starts to slide his thumb over the screen. Molly has no other choice than to take out her own phone.

 

Two messages from Sherlock. Her chest tightens. His timing is spectacularly bad, or spectacularly good, depending on what he’s trying to do. In any case, in true Holmes fashion, it is spectacular. There’s no use in putting off reading them, though, it will eat away at her all evening.

 

_Problem with the postal service?_

 

Molly frowns, confused, but the second text clears up the first.

 

_I would’ve thought you’d gotten my flowers by now._

 

He’s trying to throw her off, she realises. He must’ve found out about her date – mere child’s play for him, with Mary in the house - and he’s deliberately ambushing her when she’s most vulnerable. Well, if he’s trying to coax a reaction out of her it’s not going to work.

 

Simon is still busy with his own phone so she quickly answers.

 

_I did. Thank you._

 

The reply is almost instantaneous.

 

_I meant what I said on the card._

 

Molly can picture it perfectly in her head – she’s stared at it long enough – the hasty yet elegant writing, standing out starkly on a white card, lodged in the middle of a small bouquet of violets. _Terribly sorry about Saturday. Best, Sherlock._

 

She knew even as her pulse quickened that there was only one thing he truly wanted from her and it was definitely not her forgiveness, or only as a means to and end, but it was still jarring to receive flowers from Sherlock Holmes himself. It took all of her willpower to not to answer and three days later, the flowers lay untouched on her kitchen counter, withering in their paper wrap.

 

But her willpower is waning now. Maybe Sherlock is genuinely sorry. Maybe he truly doesn’t understand why she’s avoiding him. Maybe she can at least be polite.

 

“Are you okay?” Simon asks. “You look like you got some bad news.”

 

“Oh yes, it’s – um – a friend of mine,” she fumbles, “going through a bad breakup… Needs a bit of moral support…”

 

_It’s nothing_ , she types. _Forget it._

 

“I understand,” Simon says. “Not that I ever have friends ever texting me over girl trouble – in our case we just go out and get pissed to make it all better.”

 

_Would be easier to do that if you switched back._

 

Molly realises Simon is waiting for her to react and forces a little laugh. “I guess it’s as effective as anything.”

 

_Please._

 

That small word, alone on her screen, is nearly her undoing. But then all of a sudden she imagines it in a different context – coming from the mouth of _that woman_ in a moment of ecstasy, or his, even. They would be entwined, the mink stool would be on the floor, and her lipstick would be smudged, but she would’ve kept the boots…

 

Molly shakes her head free from the image and switches her phone to silent mode, then puts it back in the bag with a sort of ferocious delight.

 

“I’m sorry, this can wait,” she says, turning back to Simon with a smile. “I think the waiter’s coming with our main course.”

 

 

#

 

 

Slumped in his armchair, Sherlock twirls his phone between his thumb and his forefinger as it remains stubbornly, annoyingly silent. A twinge of impatience niggles at his brain but in fact he wasn’t really expecting this to work. It’s better to see this as an experiment that had a seventy-five per cent chance of failing, and there’s no reason to be irked at scientific statistics being right.

 

He admits he was curious to see if he could convince Molly by sheer suggestion – the flowers, the text sent during her date with the man Mary so crudely set her up with, when she’s in the right frame of mind for hopes of romance. Evidently this is not enough, or at least not this time. Whatever shaky defences Molly has put around herself, he needs to be physically present to dismantle them. It shouldn’t take much more than a smile and few kind words, and if he feels the need for extra precaution he’ll plunge his eyes into hers. Molly has always been particularly sensitive to his eyes, her chest rises ever so slightly when their gazes meet and then she has a very hard time looking away. It is predictable and slightly ridiculous but part of him cannot deny that he likes it, this feeling of pulling on a string and drawing her in.  

 

For some reason, Sherlock finds himself recalling the precise noise she makes when her breath hitches, a feathery noise so light anyone else but himself probably wouldn’t notice it. He wonders if she ever makes that noise in front of anyone else. He wonders why he cares.

 

And then another noise shatters his thoughts, one that leaves much less to the imagination.

 

_When did London get so boring? Let’s have dinner._

 

He usually lets the words of the Woman hang in thin air, perhaps because he’s not quite sure what would happen if he acknowledged them, and even when she informed him of her return to London, he preferred to go see her directly instead of replying. But tonight they float around him like stubborn tendrils of smoke and he just wants to swat them away. This wasn’t the text he was expecting. This text will solve nothing in his predicament.

 

_We already have_ , he types quickly, then lays the phone down on a pile of books next to his armchair and retreats to his room.


	4. Chapter 4

A case comes up that takes Sherlock away from London and keeps him engrossed for the next three weeks. When he comes back to Baker Street, things are delightfully normal and familiar, and it is only when he returns to Barts that he is reminded that there is work to do to make things right again.

 

As always, his intuition has been validated: Stuart Graves is entirely unsuitable for the position. Not as pathologist, he seems to know his stuff well enough, but as colleague to Sherlock. Because that’s what Molly was, in fact, and not just because she accepted to fetch him coffee whenever he needed. She was diligent, hard-working and most importantly, she was quiet, like a little mouse scurrying around them, getting minor but essential tasks done. But Stuart Graves is not quiet. Stuart Graves’ admiration doesn’t translate to baleful looks and clumsy make-up experiments, but to persistent badgering that only subsides for a while when Sherlock snaps at him to be silent before starting up again. He is bursting with questions and remarks and trivia about each of their cases and can’t help but spout them out at regular intervals. Even John seems tired of this after an hour or so, so Sherlock assumes that his own extreme annoyance is perfectly legitimate and not just another _quirk_ of his, as John would say.

 

“You must admit now that it is vital for us to get Molly back,” Sherlock announces triumphantly when they leave Barts that night. “I tried to see things your way but he just won’t do.”

 

But John won’t admit defeat so easily. “Okay, so Stuart is a bit talkative -”

 

“ _A bit talkative_? John, the man is an absolute pest.”

 

“All right, he’s a pest, but we’re just going to have to learn to live with it. I’m not going to help you change Molly’s mind, Sherlock. As long as we have access to the lab and the cold chamber, that’s all that matters.”

 

“You and your principles. I’d like to say that’s Mary rubbing off on you, but you were just as despairingly honourable before you met her.”

 

“You’re honourable too, Sherlock,” John states. “You like to pretend you aren’t, but I know you would never force Molly into doing something she doesn’t want. She’s your friend.”

 

There is something insistent in John’s tone that indicates he wants to believe what he’s saying but he can’t quite get there. Nonetheless John is right about one thing: Sherlock would never force Molly to do anything. He’s never forced her before. She did those things he asked of her because she wanted to. She’s simply been tricked into thinking she wants something else now, and once again it’s up to Sherlock to make the truth prevail.

 

Sherlock would think it’s a nice favour he’s doing her if John hadn’t told him many times before that honesty and kindness are not strict equivalents. Sherlock understood long ago that John is exceptional in his ability to take in his assessments unfiltered, and it’s probably the reason he remains to this day Sherlock’s only friend.

 

For whatever John may think, Molly isn’t his friend. She’s something, but not that. Sherlock trusts her, and he’s… fond of her, in a way, but _friend_ doesn’t settle easily in his mind when he thinks of her. He needs _pathologist_ back or he won’t know where to file her. It’s a strange, frustrating feeling, but in a corner of his mind, there is also a quiver of excitement.

 

 

#

 

When Sherlock knocks at Molly’s door at seven o’clock the next evening, he is sure of several things. First of all, she’s at home (he’s kept her address in file all throughout his exile, just in case, and figuring out the floor and orientation of her flat wasn’t much of a stretch - conveniently street side, the window instantly recognisable by the timid potted plants in dire need of a good watering). Second, she hasn’t eaten yet (it would take her at least three quarters of an hour to get home from Barts and then twenty more minutes to get take-out delivered). And third, he’s stayed away just long enough for any ill feelings regarding the dinner debacle to subside (over two weeks of absence and Molly’s smiles are brighter, her coffee more carefully prepared, an insignificant fact that’s nevertheless always given him a puff of pride).

 

The door opens a crack and Molly’s face appears, her eyes dark and wary, her lips painted red. Sherlock is confused for a moment – she couldn’t possibly have been expecting him – but he lets the detail slide and gives her a winning smile.

 

“Evening, Molly. Mind if I come in?”

 

“Um, Sherlock, now may not be the best time…”

 

She’s hesitant, but not angry. He locks his eyes in hers and instinctively she lets the door open a little more. When he takes off his scarf, the door opens completely. _That’s a girl._ Now he can finally study what she’s wearing. Unusually revealing for Molly: a dark wrap-over top a shimmery material, a tight skirt and sheer black stockings. She’s pulled her hair up which suggests, quite effectively, full access to the expanse of her neck. Hands? No, too gruesome. Mouth, then. Her painted lips are just a starting point towards her cleavage.

 

Sherlock realises he’s about to toe the line into staring and looks up, nearly flustered.

 

“I was going to take you out to dinner but I see you’ve already got plans,” he says. “Unless you can somehow postpone them.”

 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I really can’t. You see - ”

 

“Everything all right, Molly?”

 

A sandy-haired man appears in the hallway. Sherlock recalls a name, _Simon_ , murmured by Mary while she was talking to John on the sly (or so she thought). At one glance, Sherlock knows everything there is to know about him, which is not a lot - _office worker, upper middle-class background, sports fan, enjoys beer more than wine but will pretend otherwise in front of a woman, youngest child of a large brood._ He and Molly have gone out on a few dates but she hasn’t invited him back to her place yet, a step he’s clearly hoping she will take tonight and she seems willing enough, given the outfit, although when Sherlock glances to his left in the narrow kitchen he sees a bottle of Montepulciano and two glasses carefully laid out next to the sink. Amusing, but not surprising – she’s counting on wine to loosen up. The git will probably think she’s being romantic when in fact it is an avowal of his lack of effect on her.

 

Sherlock turns to him and grins. “I don’t think we’ve met. Sherlock Holmes.”

 

The man smiles and extends his hand. “Simon Flaherty. I thought I recognised you from the papers. And Molly’s told me about you. You two work together, right?”

 

“Used to,” Molly says quickly. “Sherlock just dropped by because he needs a – a file from my computer. For the lab. It’ll only take a minute.”

 

“Okay, but hurry, we have to leave soon if we want to make it on time for the movie.”

 

Sherlock bites his lower lip to keep from laughing. Molly is a terrible liar and it says something about Simon Flaherty’s intellectual skills that he doesn’t pick it up. This man isn’t even a shadow of a rival for Sherlock, but Molly is too polite to cancel their date now. Dinner’s out of the question - an unfortunate setback, although he cannot deny he will take a certain pleasure in bending Molly to his will when another man thinks he’s doing the bending.

 

“Come on then, Sherlock.” Molly hurries away and he follows her across the living room and into her bedroom.

 

Once inside, Sherlock looks around, hands behind his back. “So, this is your room. And that’s the infamous Toby on the bed. Hello, Toby.”

 

“Sherlock, why did you come here?” Molly whispers. There is an edge of panic to her voice. “If you really needed something, you could’ve called or…”

 

“I told you, I wanted to take you out to dinner.”

 

“What, crisps?”

 

“No, a real restaurant!” he replies, offended.

 

Molly shakes her head. “You don’t really want to take me out, you’re trying to convince me to change my hours again.”

 

“Of course I am. I had much rather work with you than with Stuart Graves. Is that a crime?”

 

“No, but - ”

 

“And that doesn’t mean we couldn’t spend a pleasant evening together.”

 

Ah, there it is. Molly crosses her arms in front of her chest defensively but she can’t hide the flush on her cheeks or the catch in her breath or the quickening of her pulse. He can see her carotid artery beating softly right there on the curve of her neck. With him she wouldn’t need Italian red as a crutch. 

 

If he pushed her now, would she give in? He hovers over her, wondering. But no, it would be too hasty, too sloppy.  That’s not how the game is played. He’ll back off for the time being, let Molly think it’s safe.

 

“I do have a pleasant evening planned already,” she insists, lifting her chin up. “With _Simon_. And if you’ll excuse me, we’re going to be late.”

 

“If you say so,” Sherlock says innocently.

 

They exit the room and Sherlock makes his way towards the front door, stopping only to shake Simon’s hand once more.

 

“A pleasure meeting you. Enjoy the movie.”

 

When the door closes behind him, Sherlock drops the smile, but inside he is experiencing the savage satisfaction of a predator about to make the kill. Although it didn’t go quite as expected, the evening has been most productive. He now has everything he needs to plot his final move.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Molly lies in bed with Toby purring at her side and distractedly scratches the spot behind his neck. He, at least, is satisfied with the evening’s outcome. If she had let Simon stay, he would’ve had to slip out and curl up somewhere else.

 

Why didn’t she do it? Why did she back down at the last moment? Is she really that much of a coward that she can’t take a step forward?

 

And it was such a great date, too, probably the best Molly’s ever had. It had been ages since she’d gone to the cinema and the movie was good. Then they had a light dinner in a small Chinese restaurant, talking all the while. Simon is so easy to talk to. He slips neatly into any conversation, never contradicting, always finding one point of interest or other to bounce back on. Sometimes it feels almost impersonal, this unflinching politeness, but then he makes sure to dispense little attentions that will please her – telling her she looks nice, taking her hand, kissing her forehead.

 

They came back to her place afterwards and drank a glass of wine, and then she leaned against him and he brought her close. Simon is a very good kisser, smooth and passionate, and he knows exactly how to keep his hands on the fine line between bold and respectful. She imagines that he would be exactly the same in bed – a solid, experienced lover, the type every woman wants.

 

It would’ve been so easy. In a parallel universe, one where she didn’t pull back, they would be making love at this very minute. Instead she is alone, by her own fault.

 

“I’m sorry,” she told him. “You’re wonderful, really, but I don’t think I’m ready.”

 

“All right,” he said slowly. “Is anything wrong?”

 

“No, no, nothing, it’s me… It’s just that -”

 

She had to lie. She _had_ to. But then she came up with something that only felt like a half-truth.

 

“My last relationship was sort of a disaster – a man pretending to be someone he wasn’t at all.”

 

“Oh. Double life? Married bloke?”

 

“Something like that,” she squeaked, remembering Moriarty’s hollow, implacable eyes from the news report on television.  “Anyway, since then I’ve been having trust issues. It’s hard for me cut loose, you know?”

 

She could tell he was disappointed but he gently squeezed her hand and smiled. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you there. I can wait.”

 

Guilt and sorrow washed over her as he left and burble now in the pit of her stomach. Here is a good man, a nice person, handsome and pleasing, and still she can’t let go of the ghost that always dwells in a corner of her mind. In her defence, that ghost was very real tonight, showing up on her doorstep.

It’s all Sherlock’s fault, she decides abruptly. Sherlock and his stupid eyes and his stupid scarf. He must know (because nothing he does is ever a coincidence) that when he looks straight at her like that and wraps his long, graceful fingers around the tails and takes it off in a gesture that’s both completely banal and strangely intimate, her defences crumble. She should be proud of herself, really, holding it together. He came into her bedroom, for God’s sake, and he was standing so close she could smell the faint aroma of his cologne, something elegant and subdued. She shouldn’t beat herself up because she wasn’t ready to have Simon over. She should congratulate herself for telling Sherlock to bugger off.

 

Molly sits up in her bed and Toby lets out a plaintive mewl. For the first time, getting over Sherlock feels like an actual possibility, a faint glimmer in the distance. She pictures herself in some imaginary future, laughing and having a drink at an office party (a _Christmas_ party, she decides, as a small act of revenge), gleaming with hardened indifference. Simon would be there, getting along famously with everyone, and she would look at Sherlock and think, or perhaps even say (to Mary, who would be there too, and she should be the first to hear these words), “I can’t believe I used to be so taken with him!”

 

Molly smiles. Bolstered by this image, she opens the drawer on her nightstand and sifts through the small objects she keeps there – a rodent’s skull she found in the garden when she was a child and studied for hours, an antique scalpel with a smooth ivory handle her father gave her when she got hired at Barts, a card Mary and John sent her from Pompei last summer when they were travelling in Italy, and finally, a newspaper article she carefully cut up and preserved.

 

She picks it up and gently unfolds it. It’s a full page about Sherlock’s death, from one of the less trashy newspapers. The facts and biography are uninteresting and inaccurate, though she does love the picture they chose of him, a close-up where he’s looking intently ahead of him as if he’s got insight into another world. But the main reason she kept it is because at the time, when Sherlock was gone for so long without a word, it felt like a link between them. She knew he was alive when they were all speculating about his death. She would look at the newspaper clipping and think, _Everyone’s got it all wrong, everyone but me._ It made his absence slightly less unbearable.

She should throw it away now. Crumple it up and toss it in the bin. But she can’t bring herself to do it. It feels like betrayal somehow, although she’s not sure towards whom – Sherlock or herself. There will be time to do it later, time to figure it out.

 

“Yes, all in good time,” she murmurs to herself.

 

She folds it back up, stows it away in the drawer and switches off the light.

 

#

 

 

Sherlock sits in his armchair. The room around him is bathed in the grey light of the early morning. It is the best hour for thinking, surrounded by utter silence, mind cleansed by sleep. He stares at the wall and summons the little details he picked up in Molly’s flat last night and filed in his memory, then starts to organise them minutely. In the right order they are like a combination to a lock, and if he opens it he will make Molly yield.

 

The framed pictures first. They are like little public displays of one’s achievements, but also the gateway to hidden aspirations, propped up on shelves for all to see. Sherlock is amazed people are so readily willing to expose them. There were three on Molly’s commode in the living room: one of her parents from long ago, one of herself when she graduated from medical school, and the last, the most recent, she and Mary posing, champagne flutes in hand, at the Watson-Morstan engagement party. This one is larger than the other two and Molly put it in a brightly coloured frame to draw the eye. Sherlock knows Mary and Molly are close friends, but it’s no coincidence she chose the picture from the engagement party and not any other event. It’s almost as if she’s hoping Mary’s marital aura will rub off on her somehow and magically move her to the front of the line.

 

Sherlock frowns. Dull and daft as Molly’s new boyfriend may be, the threat he poses should not be underestimated. There is an onslaught of social pressure to settle down and have children as soon as a woman turns thirty. Molly may be able to fend it off better than most since both her parents are dead, but her thirst for normality is palpable and in a few months Simon Flaherty may just be able to whisk her off to some dismal suburb with nothing but the promise of a steady, secure life with a man in relatively good physical form and no discernable balding patterns.

 

Whirlwind romance, roses, a shiny diamond ring, a happy family life – a happy ending. There is a carefully arranged collection of contemporary romances on the bookshelf next to the telly, only best sellers, nothing too raunchy, no ripping bodices and half-naked clansmen with long flowing hair. Reasonable, respectable stories that have been purchased new and only read once, he could tell by the single crease on the spine. There were a few DVDs as well, very recent acquisitions, still smelling of fresh plastic. Molly’s no movie buff. She purchased them hastily before her boyfriend came to pull the wool over his eyes.

 

_Molly, Molly, Molly_. Sherlock shakes his head and his mouth curls into a wry smile. The living room was proofed, but she didn’t do a very good job with her bedroom - another sign she didn’t really want to bring that man in there (although he can’t be one hundred per cent certain that she _didn’t_ and it irritates him that this is mere conjecture, but he decides to write it off as a non-event in any case, for how could someone who knows so little about Molly satisfy her in any way?). Piled in the open bottom of her nightstand is the real stuff – books that have been read time and time again, the covers bent and cornered, the spines supple from use. Ann Radcliffe, the Brontë sisters, Wilkie Collins, two poetry anthologies. _The Phantom of the Opera_ – an original edition from the nineties, she probably read it as a teenager and kept it all these years, but it is still less worn than _Frankenstein_ , whose cover is nearly in tatters. There was a book about forensic palaeoanthropology as well and, amusingly, a purple binder simply labelled “Burial Sites”, hardly the type of thing one would want to explain to a corporate flunky.

 

How very interesting - plain, pleasant, mousy Molly hiding a fantastical, gothic heart under that cherry cardigan of hers. God only knows what’s lurking in the drawer next to the pillow where she lays down to sleep. The contrast stirs him, beguiles him almost. He always thought she was nothing more than a nice, normal girl but he’s starting to understand that his idea of “normal” is slightly unorthodox. Nice, normal girls work in offices and shop in their free time and go to the pub with other girls and have _girly cocktails_ , whatever the hell that vile neologism means. They don’t spend their nights cutting up dead bodies. They don’t break the law to help someone fake a death. And they certainly don’t dream of being swept off their feet by dark, dangerous creatures such as himself.

 

They end up with the Simon Flaherties of the world. But Molly won’t. Or at least she _shouldn’t_.

 

That prim little flat is a battleground, he realises, a projection of the war roaring inside of her. He thinks again of that overblown picture of Mary and Molly, taking entirely too much space. Not a magical charm, then, but the portrait of a leader. It’s high time he fought back with more consistent ammo. Mary has given Molly a taste of what she thinks she needs, and now he will give her a taste of what she truly desires. 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

April rolls along and gives in to May, and Molly doesn’t hear from Sherlock. Yet it is only when Stuart mentions to Molly that he’s been diligently coming to the lab for a full month that she allows herself to believe he’s given up on changing her mind. She feels relieved and disappointed at the same time. It was flattering, albeit a bit terrifying, to have Sherlock fight for her in any way. She supposes it was only a question of habit, and now he’s developing a new routine with Stuart, who must not lack shortcomings and ridiculous traits of his own in Sherlock’s eyes, but work comes first, as it always has.

 

 

“I admit, I hadn’t quite imagined him like that,” Stuart confesses with a nervous little laugh, coffee cup in hand.

 

 

“No one does,” she replies. “Imagination falls short of someone like Sherlock Holmes.”

 

 

It’s over and done with, then. Molly starts to walk with a little spring in her step. The weather is beautiful and she’s been going out almost two months with Simon. It’s the longest relationship she’s had in years, a fact both depressing and encouraging. She stayed over at his place the other night – it was easier, somehow, than in her own flat – and that was very nice, too, even though she didn’t really _get there_. But she was nervous, and out of practice, and Simon enjoyed it at least. He did nothing wrong, not at all. She’s confident it will get better. In fact she’s invited Mary and John to have dinner with them the following week, a real double date this time, and no risk of one seat staying empty.

 

 

Things are looking up and she is looking forward. Too far ahead, perhaps, to notice anything is amiss when Stuart doesn’t show up at work one Thursday evening. She waits until eight o’clock then tries his cell, but it goes straight to voicemail. Finally, a little bit before nine, her phone rings. It’s a hidden number but she picks up immediately.

 

 

“Molly, it’s me, Stuart.”

 

 

“Stuart, where are you? I’ve been waiting for ages and -”

 

 

“Yeah, listen, some bum assaulted me on the way to work and stole my phone -”

 

 

“Oh no. Gosh, that’s terrible! Are you all right?”

 

  

“I’m – I’m at the police station to make a statement. He sort of – shoved me to the ground and grabbed it out of my hands, nothing too serious, but I’m a bit shaken up.”

 

 

“Of course, I understand. Look, do you want me to take your shift? I don’t mind staying. It’s been a slow day.”

 

 

“Would you, Molly? That’d be great. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

 

 

“Don’t worry about it, it’s nothing. Go home and get some rest after you’re done.”

 

 

Poor Stuart, Molly thinks later that evening as she delicately stitches up the sternum of a middle-aged man she’s been examining. What rotten luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But despite her fatigue she’s almost glad to be working the night shift for once. She sort of missed it, being alone with Barts so silent and still around her. The emergency ward is too far away for any of the humdrum to reach the morgue. She supposes this was the reason why Sherlock liked coming here late at night.

 

  

_No,_ she scolds herself. _Don’t fall into that again._ Wouldn’t it be ironic, though, if he decided to show up tonight?

 

 

As soon as the thought forms in her head, Molly freezes and her stomach plummets. He couldn’t. He _wouldn’t_. What was the word Stuart used? _A bum_ …

 

 

She zips the man back in his bag with trembling hands and stores him away. When she’s done, she hurries back to the lab and glances at the clock on the wall. Almost one o’clock. The building is empty by now and there’s nothing keeping him from slipping in.  

 

 

When the doorknob clicks behind her, she is not so much surprised as she is alarmed. Sherlock doesn’t scare her, not exactly, but the wild beating of her heart is much more of a threat.

 

 

  

#

 

 

 

When Molly turns around to face him, not nearly as startled as he would’ve expected, Sherlock understands at once that his scheme has been uncovered. Not that it makes any difference, he wasn’t going to lie to her anyway, and he’s rather impressed she figured it out so fast. She’s trying to look angry, but she only looks afraid.

 

 

He closes the door behind him. “Good evening, Molly.”

 

  

“You did this to Stuart,” she says, her voice wavering. “You set that homeless man on him.”

 

 

“He’ll be fine. The man had clear instructions not to do any serious damage. Stuart’s phone is covered by insurance and in any case, he seems like the type of person to change it every six months.”

 

 

“That doesn’t make it right!” Molly exclaims. “He was hurt, and he spent a terrible evening at the police station, and all that for what? So you come here and nag me about my schedule again?”

 

 

Sherlock gives her a cold glare. “No, that’s not why I came.”

 

 

“Why then? Why won’t you just – just leave me alone? You were perfectly fine ignoring me before!”

 

 

“I came to settle the score.”

 

  

He walks up to her slowly and he can tell Molly wants to step back, but she grips the edge of the table and puts on a brave face.

 

  

“Really? You’ve got some nerve! What have _I_ done wrong?”

 

 

Sherlock looks at her long and hard and moves his hand next to hers until they almost touch.

 

  

“You’re ruthless in your own way, Molly Hooper, did you know that? You make it very easy for one to rely on your help and generosity, for one to trust you, and then just like that, you take all of it away without so much as a notice. You think I’m cruel and maybe you’re right but your hands aren’t entirely clean.”

 

 

“I didn’t think you’d -”

 

 

“No, you didn’t think. You blindly assumed that it would make no difference to me but it _does_. Do I have to tell you again that I need you? Is that what this is about?”

 

 

He takes a step closer. Molly’s breath flutters and it sends the slightest of shivers across the nape of his neck.

 

 

“Well, I do. I need you. I won’t have anyone else and I don’t care which methods I must use to make you understand it.”

 

 

“But Stuart, he – he does all that, all the things I can do for you, and - “

 

 

“Not all of them. Not nearly.”

 

 

Molly looks up at him, her eyes dark and wide, her lips slightly parted. He has never been this close to her before, not even the night he came into her bedroom. He only has to bend down to press his mouth to hers.

 

 

He knew planning this out that this would be the only definitive way to seal the deal, to make her give in and forget this boyfriend nonsense, to crystallize the moment in her mind. It’s a small concession he’s willing to make for the greater good, and a thanks of sorts as well, for what she did for him. An unexpected kiss in the darkened lab of the morgue after a dramatic display of possessiveness  – she’ll like that _much_ better than flowers.

 

 

He pulls away and she opens her eyes, too stunned to speak. But he doesn’t step back as he should. Something pushes him to linger there, a sharp awareness of the heat radiating from her body, the smell of her skin, the foreign yet pleasing taste she left on his mouth. Molly has never seemed so real, so _dense_. He tentatively kisses her again, trying to shake off the growing tautness in his limbs, except it somehow makes it even worse.

 

 

Molly replies timidly at first, but when he kisses her a third time, deeper and longer, she grows surprisingly bold. She lets go of the table and grabs the lapels of his coat, and Sherlock tells himself that’s quite enough now. He should stop, he should follow the plan, she’s going to get clingy and emotional. He’s already achieved what he wanted. There is no logical reason for him to continue. And yet he does. He snakes an arm around her waist to bring her closer, relishing the pressure it causes against his chest, his belly, his groin. His body won’t listen to reason or logic, it follows only one simple command now: _more_.

 

 

But surely, he thinks desperately in a corner of his mind still preserved from the heavy, invading darkness, surely Molly will stop. At some point, she will break the kiss and say something along the lines of _this is crazy_ or _we can’t do this here_ and he will be able to slip away before anything catastrophic happens. He waits, and she writhes against him, and he presses her roughly against the edge of the table, and she gives a soft little moan against his mouth, and he realises then that Molly doesn’t have the slightest intention of putting a halt to this. She wants him to take her right there in her lab at Barts without so much as a promise or a romantic word. She won’t even ask him to take off his coat, in fact given the way she’s gripping it there’s a good chance some part of her will find it more exciting if he keeps it on.

 

 

It knocks the air of out of him. No breathing, no thinking, he feels like he’s nothing but a bundle of nerves and flesh, relying solely on instinct – he has to, in fact, because his experience in the matter is limited and beyond a certain point, non-existent. Not that he’s never had the opportunity, but there was always a degree of show and sophistication that made him step out of himself and realise the incongruity of the situation and ultimately forced him to stop.

 

 

But there is none of that with Molly. She ripples under his touch, mewls softly when he kisses her neck and tugs at her blouse to bite the pale, tender flesh of her cleavage (why hide it now, he’s been wanting to do that ever since he saw her in that silly shimmery top the other night), spreads open when he inexpertly shoves his hands up her skirt. She is utterly given, without the slightest trace of self-consciousness, a haven of sensation to lose himself in, _finally_.

 

 

She pushes him back slightly and for one terrifying moment Sherlock snaps back to reality and thinks Molly is, in fact, going to tell him to stop, but no, she only leads him away from the table and to a bare expanse of the wall, near the door.

 

 

“The instruments,” she murmurs, “they’ll break…”

 

 

She says it almost coyly, but underneath it is an avowal that she expects him to thrust into her hard enough to topple the beakers and send them shattering to the floor, and his arousal is such that it nearly bends him in half. He grinds against her, a wordless plea to alleviate some of the ache, and she fumbles with his belt to release him.

 

 

His body is relentlessly urging him forward but he is unsure how to proceed – ridding her of her underwear is easy enough, they roll down her legs without resistance, but should he touch her? Make sure she’s ready? He strokes her with his thumb, slides his fingers deftly, and she gives a shuddering cry – yes, she definitely likes that, they come back slick and wet.

 

 

“Molly,” he pants, “tell me – tell me how to -”

 

 

But she simply takes him in her hand and guides him, and he sheathes himself in her. Then freezes, trembling, overwhelmed by the burst of pleasure coursing through him, but also wary because his self-control is waning and what if he does something wrong?

  

 

But Molly’s eyes are squeezed shut now, her breathing erratic, her fingers gripping his shoulders.

 

 

“Oh,” she moans in his ear. “Oh… _Sherlock_ …”

 

 

It is all he needs his restraint to give way. He grips her thighs for leverage and starts to move, slow at first then faster, _further_ , _further_ , _harder_ , matching the frantic beat of his pulse and her own cries. The delicious tightness inside of him is close to breaking and he tries to hold it together, but when she quivers against him, so artless and unembarrassed in her pleasure, he comes apart and meets his release with a loud grunt, his forehead pressed against the cold wall, her hair bunched in his fist.

 

 

Neither of them moves for a moment, and Sherlock lets himself bask in the wonderful feeling of coming to a standstill. But soon, too soon, everything assaults him again, the smell of the lab, the ticking of the clock, their strange, uncomfortable position. He disentangles himself from Molly and she gingerly picks up her underwear.

 

 

His hands shake as he buckles his belt and tucks his shirt back in, and he finds he has to close his eyes for a moment to take in the onslaught of chemicals rushing through his system. When he opens them again, he looks at Molly. She is slumped against the wall, catching her breath, and Sherlock is stunned to find that everything he usually reads on her has been erased and replaced by other signs: her lips slightly swollen from kissing, her hair mussed where he gripped it, her blouse missing a button (he tugged too hard, it must’ve popped off without him realising it), her rumpled skirt, and a lovely, distinctive flush spreading from her neck to her cheeks.

 

 

He has left blatant clues of his ministrations, smeared himself all over her, and the sight thrills him in a way nothing else ever has. It is too much. He suddenly recoils.

 

 

“I’m – I’m terribly sorry, I – I made a mess.”

 

 

Molly frowns slightly and straightens herself. “What are you talking about?”

 

 

“I should’ve have come and bother you, I know you weren’t really expecting it and – I’m sorry. About Stuart. It was – rude of me to interfere in your work.”

 

  

Her eyes lose their sleepy, satisfied softness and harden with confusion. “My work? Sherlock… You’re not making any sense…”

 

 

At that precise moment, there is nothing he wants more than to run outside and take a gulp of the cool London air. Nothing except taking Molly back into his arms, undressing her, marking her more thoroughly. It’s madness. It’s the rush talking, the rush that sends into spirals of nothing.

  

 

“I must go.”

 

 

“Sherlock, wait…”

 

 

But he’s out the door before she can stop him, and before he can stop himself.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Molly stays holed up in her flat for two days, a voluntary hostage in her own home. There’s a landmine bound to go off as soon as she steps out again, someone bound to find out exactly what it is she’s done, and there’s no one whose reaction she can imagine without her stomach lurching.

 

She doesn’t show up for her shift on Friday, and calls in to say she’s sick – she hasn’t missed a single day in six years at Barts, they won’t give her any trouble – then proceeds to dismantle her link with the outside. She texts Mary (three missed calls) that she’s positively swamped with work. She texts Simon (five missed calls) that she’s visiting her friend, the one going through the bad breakup, and then burst into tears because it’s the second time she’s used that lame excuse with him and it makes her feel like the biggest shit in the world.

 

Sherlock doesn’t call or text. _Make that second biggest shit in the world_. But then, what could he possibly have to say to her? He already said sorry, and that’s pretty much the only sentiment she can imagine him expressing after what happened.

 

It’s Sunday morning and after a night of tossing and turning in her tangled sheets, Molly lies on her couch, staring up at the ceiling, willing herself not to replay the scene in her mind again, but the images come back unbidden, as they have for the last forty-eight hours. She remembers his eyes, sharp and still and intent like those of a feline as he came closer, and his lowered lids when he bent down to kiss her, giving him an air of ancient grandeur. But this is the Sherlock she’s always known, always loved, dumbfounding her with his clout and effortless elegance. This is the Sherlock she pictured in her dreams.

 

But now reality has replaced her dreams with something far more toxic: Sherlock undone, his hands feverishly clutching at her body, his breath ragged and hot against her neck, his curls falling over his forehead. He wasn’t smooth or commanding like she imagined him in so many fantasies; in fact he didn’t quite seem to know what he was doing at times, relying on her to take the lead. Which makes how much she enjoyed it all the more unnerving.

 

She throws her arm over her face, cheeks burning at the memory of how blatantly and vocally she reacted to his touch. How is it possible that she experienced so much pleasure in so little time? It was nothing more than a clumsy, rushed encounter, really, the type that can only leave you unsatisfied. Only it didn’t, not by a long shot. For all he lacks in method, Sherlock more than makes up for in sheer atmospherics. Her brain is by far her most erogenous zone and he pushed all the right buttons, one by one. All he needed was the morgue, the coat and his deep Byronic voice and she didn’t stand a chance. 

 

There must be something deeply wrong with her, she decides. She cheated on her boyfriend, lied to her best friend, profited from a colleague’s planned assault, defiled her workplace, and all for a tryst with a man who has consistently treated her like a second thought for years.

 

 _A second thought_. What kind of remorse was rushing through his head when he left her? What caused the gleam of panic in his eyes? Is it because they were unprotected? The idea has probably crossed his mind, stupid smitten Molly getting pregnant and deciding to keep it, although all is safe on that front, she’s been taking the pill for years to help with painful periods. Still, it was bloody idiotic of her not to use a condom. If he’s been seeing anyone…

 

She shakes the thought away. It’s too unbearable right now. But curiously enough, her instincts tell her he hasn’t. Actually, she’s starting to wonder if he ever has at all. Maybe that’s why he panicked… Maybe he was simply overwhelmed…

 

The chime of her mobile shatters Molly’s train of thought. She sits up abruptly. Toby, who’s been sleeping soundly in a corner of the living room, opens his eyes in annoyance. For a moment, she doesn’t move and simply looks at her mobile, which she tossed on the floor next to the coffee table last night in a fit of frustration. Should she just ignore it? If the text isn’t from Sherlock, she’ll go mad. But if she leaves it on the floor and doesn’t check, she’ll go mad as well. Finally, she goes to pick it up.

_Come to Baker Street. J & M out. I need to see you. _

 

It’s as if she’s been freed from prison.

 

She knows she shouldn’t rejoice too quickly, after all he doesn’t say _why_ he needs to see her, but he gave in first and contacted her, acknowledged her, _thought_ about her. Her elation is such that she can’t help but reply immediately.

_Be there in forty minutes. I’ll bring coffee._

 

She has to take a shower, make herself human again, and prepare to be strong as well, because she knows it won’t do if she falls into his arms right away, even if by some miracle he should request it of her. That’s what the coffee is for, to buy her a little time.

 

 

#

 

 

When Molly arrives at Baker Street, coffee tray in hand, the door to 221B is open and the flat is strangely silent, so silent that she can hear her pulse pounding in her ears. She knows Sherlock is alone but still, there’s usually such a hubbub in here that it feels a little off. She takes a deep breath and enters.

 

“Sherlock?” she calls timidly, craning her neck towards the kitchen.

 

“He’s not in, I’m afraid.”

 

Molly whips around so violently that a bit of coffee spills on her cardigan. A woman is sitting in Sherlock’s armchair, a woman she’s never seen before but recognises immediately. Irene Adler is looking at her, an amused smile playing on her crimson lips, one perfect leg crossed over the other. She’s wearing black stilettos and a skin-tight dress as if they were as comfortable as slippers and sweatpants, and Molly feels herself shrinking under her diamond-hard gaze.

 

“I don’t think introductions are necessary. Shall I call you Doctor Hooper, or would you prefer I go with Molly? Such a pretty name. Is it a diminutive?”

 

Molly simply stares at her, desperately trying to make sense of the situation. She was the one who sent the message, but how? Did she steal Sherlock’s phone, or just his chip? Did she hack into his computer? And how did she manage to enter the flat? It doesn’t matter, though, how the trap was laid, now that Molly has fallen face first into it.

 

“I’m sorry I had to use such a cheap trick to meet you,” Irene says. “But I thought it would be more efficient than calling you up and offering to go get a drink. And certainly quicker, judging by how fast you got here.” She lowers her tone to a purr of intimacy. “A piece of advice, woman to woman, you should always let a man linger a little for what he needs, whatever that may be – even lab equipment.”

 

Molly’s chest constricts painfully. She should leave, right now, turn around and run down the stairs before she can hear another word. But against a woman like Irene Adler, standing her ground is the only defence she has.

 

“What do you want?” she says, her voice muted by fear, or anger, or both.

 

“A proper look at you, for starters. It’s not every woman who can add Sherlock Holmes to her tally. In fact, I was starting to feel a bit lonesome.”

 

 _She knows_. Molly feels her legs wobble under her. All of a sudden it’s hard to breathe.

 

“I have to admit, you’re not quite what I expected. Although he has rather peculiar tastes, doesn’t he? It would be terribly crass of us to compare notes, but you get my meaning.”

 

“I really don’t know what -”

 

“Come now, Molly, you don’t have to act coy. Dead of night, corpses all around, I can understand why it got him all excited. Typical Sherlock, you can’t get the man to take you to a proper restaurant and sit down for more than fifteen minutes at a time, but he’ll free half an hour of his busy schedule for a quick fix at the morgue at Barts.”

 

She knows _everything_. How? There was no one else there, and there’s no CCTV in the lab, so… so Sherlock must’ve told her. No, surely even he wouldn’t be that cruel. But who else could have known?

 

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” Irene says with a hint of irony. “I’m no one to judge, especially when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. Those cheekbones alone are enough to drive a girl mad, aren’t they? Such a shame he’s not the relationship type.”

 

She pauses to gauge Molly’s reaction, and it takes every ounce of self-control Molly has to reply with an even voice.

 

“Why are you telling me this?”

 

“Just a friendly warning. You seem like a lovely person – with a lovely figure, I might add, you really shouldn’t hide it under those frumpy clothes – and we women have to stick together.”

 

“Are you threatening me?”

 

Irene gives a crystalline laugh.

 

“Threatening you? I’m trying to help you. I have far more sympathy for you than I do for Sherlock, believe me. I very much doubt his intentions were honourable, but perhaps you have reasons to believe otherwise?”

 

Molly has never felt so exposed, so raw. This woman is peeling her bare, layer by layer, as if her sharp red nails are nothing but an illustration of what her mind can do. Molly clamps her mouth shut and braces herself. This can’t go on much longer.

 

“That wicked man,” Irene continues, almost fondly. “He deserves to be taught some manners. Don’t be too hard on yourself, though. If you play with fire, or ice for that matter, you’re going to get burned sooner or later. I should know. I’ve been playing with it for quite some time now.”

 

That’s it, then. Molly’s been caught with someone else’s toy and has been cuffed over the ear for it. But there’s something that doesn’t quite fit. The Sherlock she uncovered the night he came to Barts, the one whose fingers tentatively made their way around her until they finally found what made her cry out, didn’t really act like a seasoned lover. If he’d been in and out of Irene Adler’s bed, wouldn’t he have known? She shakes her head.

 

“No.”

 

Irene’s smile hardens slightly. “What do you mean, _no_?”

 

“I don’t think you do know. I don’t think you’ve been doing anything with Sherlock. I think you’re lying.”

 

“Oh Molly,” Irene says with a sigh. “I really hoped you would be a bit wiser than that.”

 

She rises from the chair and saunters over to her and at once Molly knows she’s being ridiculous with her shoddy display of bravery. No man, not even Sherlock, could resist that sort of woman, who walks like she’s staking hearts with her heels at every step.

 

“Here’s a little secret of my own,” she murmurs in Molly’s ear. “When a man travels halfway around the world to Pakistan to save a woman’s life, they don’t part ways with a handshake. I’ll let you ponder on that, my car’s waiting.”

 

And she whisks off, stilettos clacking all the way down the stairs. Molly keeps perfectly still until the sound has died down and she’s sure Irene Adler is out the door, then finds she has to sit down.

 

She doesn’t exactly know how long she stays there, but after a while she notices that she’s still holding the coffee tray and that an ugly brown stain has spread on her cardigan. She’ll have to throw the coffee in the rubbish bin, by now it must be tepid at best. She’ll have to put the cardigan in the wash. She isn’t sure she can make the stain disappear. She isn’t sure she cares. In fact she’d like to rip the damned thing off and never set eyes on it again.

 

Minutes pass and 221B remains as silent as a tomb. Molly wonders where Sherlock has been all this time, what he’s been doing. Perhaps what hurts the most is that he didn’t contact her after all, didn’t acknowledge her, didn’t think about her. It hurts so much that it makes her strangely light-headed, dizzy from pain. This is what it must be like to be crushed, limb by limb, to have blood drawn from you, to be eaten alive. She pictures Sherlock and Irene licking their fingers in delectation.

 

But at least there are no tears this time. She has been so badly scalded that her sorrow and her despair have condensed and solidified into fury. When she stands to leave she feels it right there, up against her heart, shining new and dreadful. Why do they say that revenge is a dish best served cold? It seems absurd, really. She can’t ever imagine it getting cold, this scorching need for retribution. She doesn’t want cold now. She wants fire and brimstone.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s drizzling outside and already dark, but Sherlock asks the cab to drop him off near Grosvenor Square. He needs the walk to clear his head and find out exactly how a twenty-stone man can end up naked in his own lettuce patch showing signs of carbon monoxide poisoning.  He should’ve figured it out already, the case is a 6 at best and he only agreed to look into it so he would have an excuse to leave London for a few days – three, to be exact, he left precisely five hours after – no, not yet, he’ll force himself to solve this blasted murder first before he circumnavigates back to that, to _her_.

 

But there’s nothing doing. Sherlock stalks down the empty streets yet the closer he draws to home the more difficult it is to think. He assumed three days would be enough, so why can’t he focus? Baker Street is safe. Baker Street is his haven, _she_ won’t be there, only…

 

 _John_. Of course. Sherlock can’t bear the idea of facing his friend after what he did. That’s why he didn’t insist when John told him he couldn’t assist him on the case this weekend; too long in Sherlock’s company and he would have sensed something was wrong. Daft though he is about so many things, John is rather shrewd concerning human emotions.

  

Sherlock brutally rebuffs the term. Why bother with emotions? Wasn’t it just an incident, an unfortunate slip-up he can write off as a novel piece of trivia in his biography? _Sherlock Holmes lost his virginity at thirty-six in Saint Bartholomew’s morgue:_ it has quite a ring to it. But if it were only that, he wouldn’t feel so doggedly wretched, or so elated when he recalls the way she – no, _no_ , he needs to bring it together before he faces John.

 

He can fix this, he decides. He’s Sherlock Holmes; he can fix anything. Cleverness won’t be enough this time, he knows, a good dose of tact and humility will be in order. He’ll have to find a way to make it up to Stuart first, that ought to assuage part of the guilt – treat him to lunch, let him babble on and pretend to be interested, something along those lines. He should be nicer to Mary as well, get involved in those inane wedding preparations that are starting to gain momentum, offer to help with the housework, although to be honest he doesn’t know how on earth he’ll manage that.

 

John will no doubt be impressed. And then, gradually, cautiously, Sherlock will broach the subject of Molly and ask him for advice, taking care not to divulge too much compromising information. After that endless string of girlfriends, John must have extensive knowledge of the female mind and he ought to be able to come up with a solution. As much as Sherlock loathes to admit it, he needs all the help he can get in this particular situation, for whenever he tries to solve the problem himself his mind gets stuck on Molly’s lips, Molly’s skin, Molly moving her hips just _so_ to make him go a bit deeper and…

 

Sherlock stops in the middle of the sidewalk, squeezes his eyes shut, shakes it away. At this rate he’ll never get anywhere. Thankfully, he’s already in sight of the familiar black door and it offers a welcome comfort. A nice hot cuppa and a few patches, that’s what he needs to get his brain back on track.

 

But as soon as he crosses the threshold of 221B and sets his bag down, Sherlock knows something is off.

 

It’s the smell. Under the usual aroma of books and musty carpeting and chemical experiments, there’s a familiar scent, a perfume…

 

_The Woman._

 

Sherlock’s heart stops in his chest. He’s sure that’s her, there’s no mistaking it. She came to the flat – today, while John and Mary were out for lunch. But there’s something else too  - coffee, store-bought, not the kind they use in their espresso machine. He frowns. Why would Irene bring coffee? Why would she come here at all?

 

John enters the living room. His face is stern, his eyes weary. “Ah, Sherlock, you’re back. Listen, we need to have a word…”

 

“Evening, John. Can it wait? I need to have a look in my room to see if - ”

 

“No. Now would be good. I’d rather do this while Mary’s in the tub.”

 

John must have guessed that Irene’s been here and doesn’t want to frighten his fiancée. In any case they’ll have to change the locks again, not that it will stop the Woman from entering without breaking. Sherlock takes off his scarf and coat and waits for John to go on.

 

“So, Mary’s had a call from Molly this afternoon…”

 

The ground topples. Sherlock only retains balance because a ton of lead has been dropped in his stomach and is acting as ballast.

 

“Apparently, she decided not only to break things off with Simon but to change her schedule back to the way it was before. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

 

John raises his eyebrows at Sherlock in mock questioning. There’s no doubt he already knows.

 

“She didn’t inform me of her decision, no,” Sherlock answers with a dry mouth. 

 

“Really? When’s the last time you saw her?”

 

“Thursday night after – after a - I mean, _during_ a work… thing. It was for work, yes. At Barts.”

 

“That’s interesting. I thought she wasn’t on the night shift anymore.”

 

“John, I -”

 

“I’m curious to know what arguments you pulled out of your sleeves to make her change her mind. They must’ve been _extremely_ persuasive. I’m not sure why she simultaneously decided to dump her boyfriend, though.”

 

That is one meagre consolation, at least he won’t have to battle anymore with those vile images of Molly interlocked with another man, running her fingers through lighter hair, making that delicious breathy noise in a stranger’s ear. But Sherlock can’t understand _why_. He properly botched everything up with Molly, although he revelled in it every second on the way, so why is she giving in? Why is she letting him win? Yes, he has won. This is victory. Except it feels wrong, wrong in every way.  Does Molly think he only - _slept_ , _shagged_ , _had sex_ , _had intercourse_ , _made love_ , none of these work, they’re either too vulgar or too plain - with her just to convince her? True, he acted like a brute, bolting like that, but surely she knows it was panic, nothing more, and that he never planned to…

 

“Sherlock,” John presses on, “ _what happened with Molly_?”

 

“Well, I – I went to see her and then…”

 

“Then what? Turned up your coat collar, batted your eyelashes and offered to take her out? Made a pass at her? What?”

 

“I was just – being courteous, giving her a polite kiss, I didn’t think it would go that far, only…”

 

“ _Go that far_? Sherlock, I heard you come in at two in the morning, she couldn’t have taken you home -”

 

“No, we… we stayed in the lab but...”

 

John holds his hand up. He doesn’t want to hear anymore.

 

“I can’t believe it,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “I knew you were capable of many things but not _that_.”

 

“John, please -”

 

“After all she’s done for you, after all _you_ put her through, you had to go and ruin it for her, because Sherlock Holmes simply can’t take no for an answer, can he? Well, I’ll tell you what, Mister Genius Detective, you’ve just gone and acted like millions of other common, average, run-of-the-mill tossers who treat women like tissue paper and use them to get off! How do you like that?”

 

John ends in a shout and it reverberates on the walls. He presses his lips together before continuing in a calmer tone. “For the sake of our friendship and your head, I’ll ask Mary not to get involved in this, but you - you stay away from Molly, all right? I mean it. You stay away from her, Sherlock, or so help me, I will clobber you.”

 

The anger and disappointment etched in his friend’s traits is a more effective blow than a punch to the gut. John turns away without another word and leaves the room.

 

Sherlock isn’t sure he’s out of earshot when Irene’s moan of pleasure echoes inside his pocket. The sound repulses him but he takes his phone anyway and looks at the message.

 

_Now that you’ve had breakfast, let’s have dinner._

 

Sherlock’s hand curls around the phone. The truth is right there but for the first time in his life he’d rather not see it, he wants to push it away, yet the deductions pour out of him relentlessly. 

 

It was Molly who brought coffee. Irene broke into his computer and lured her to Baker Street after finding out what happened at Barts. She’s been tracking them down, doing her research, piecing information together. Did she go through the trouble of bugging the lab, have him followed or simply wheedle one of the security guards at Barts for information? No matter, all she needed was evidence of Sherlock coming in and coming out again a short time later, dishevelled and flushed, to figure it out.

 

Yes, that’s exactly the type of twisted, slightly obscene scheme the Woman delights in, but there must’ve been a trigger, a motive, something that made her take an interest in the timid pathologist with the hopeless crush Jim Moriarty must’ve told her about years ago…

 

He suddenly remembers his last reply to her.

 

_We already have._

 

The last piece of the puzzle falls neatly into place; he would savour the moment if it weren’t such bitter proof of his own failure. Those three little words typed in haste caused all the rest to collapse. He never dispelled the innuendo, never pointed out that they had, in fact, already dined together on several occasions, except that night when he was thinking of Molly, and Irene sensed the game was over.

 

Was she jealous, a woman scorned in favour of another, or did she just want to keep on playing? The result is the same. Whatever she told Molly (probably something along the lines of Sherlock using her and only doing it for sport and that night they spent in Karachi, what did Irene reveal about that night, _what_?), Molly bought into it. And then, out of rage and despair and revenge, she did the worst thing she could possibly do: she gave him what he wanted, and let Mary and John know all about it.

 

Sherlock has dug his own grave more than once but this is a fresh circle of hell he has never experienced before: the prospect of a gaping hole in his life where Molly once was, where she provided warmth and smiles and thoughtful gestures.  Now there will only be cold glares, practiced indifference, disapproval in John’s eyes whenever they mention her, spiteful remarks from Mary when they’re making the seating chart and they have to put them at different tables, unless… Unless…

 

Sherlock grabs his coat from the rack so violently that he knocks over the umbrella stand. 

 

He’s halfway down the stairs when John clambers after him.

 

“Sherlock, where are you going? Didn’t you hear what I told you? I swear, when you come back I’ll -”

 

Sherlock stops and turns to face him. “Yes, I know, John, you’ll clobber me and I have every intention of letting you. Don’t think this is me underestimating your capacities in this domain, I’m well-aware of the damage you can do, but I’ll be damned if I let Molly Hooper slip away and spend the rest of her life thinking I’m not a better man than the one Irene Adler makes me out to be.”

 

“ _Irene Adler_? What has she got to do with it?”

 

“I’ll explain later!” he exclaims impatiently then darts off into the London streets.

 

 

#

 

 

As soon as his knuckles rap on Molly’s door, Sherlock’s mind races to possible plans of action in case she refuses to open, but they are cut short when the latch clicks. The door, however, stays ominously still and Sherlock is left to push it himself to enter the flat.

 

Molly is standing in the living room next to the sofa, arms wound tightly against her chest, shoulders hunched. Her entire body language is shutting him out – no, worse, screaming for him to leave. The contrast between this Molly and the one he so brashly ran away from the other night is almost unbearable. He grasps the back of an armchair to steady his shaking hands and makes a valiant effort to appear composed.

 

“Molly, I came as soon as I -”

 

“What do you want, Sherlock? I don’t see what more I could possibly do for you.” She pauses and looks at him for a moment and the hurt in her eyes is almost as terrible as what she says next. “Unless you’re here for a quick shag you can laugh about later with your good friend Irene.”

 

He must keep his calm, he _must_ , or else all will be lost. “If you knew Irene Adler like I did, you’d know she doesn’t need any help in finding out about my whereabouts and… activities. I didn’t tell her. I didn’t tell anyone.”

 

Unbelievably, Molly nods. She won’t fight with him on this, but far from reassuring him, it only gives him a heightened impression of dread. She is saving her energy for something far worse.

 

“You two really are like birds of a feather then,” she says in an oddly soft voice. “Making _correct deductions_ about people. She knew exactly why you’d done it. She seemed to find the entire thing very amusing, although I suppose she was also marking her territory.”

 

“Her territory?”

 

“Well, you are involved with her, aren’t you?”

 

“In a way, yes, but not the one you think. I can assure you that Irene Adler and I never - ”

 

“SHUT UP!” Molly shrieks, and Sherlock startles with the violence of it. “Don’t – don’t you dare say one more word! How bloody stupid do you think I am? Do you honestly expect me to believe that you aren’t sleeping with that woman, that you didn’t just – _screw_ me as part of your plan?”

 

He doesn’t which is worst: the repulsion in her voice, or that ugly word she used to describe the exquisite moment where all his self-control lay crumpled at her feet. She can’t mean it, she’s just trying to get to him. It’s working.

 

“No, it wasn’t part of any plan, I never thought -”

 

“What was it then? A simple act of charity, to make me realise that I was fooling myself, thinking I could go on with Simon and get over you? Because God knows I’d be so much happier being your lapdog and doing your bidding and – and – making dinner for you when you won’t even show up - ”

 

A sound like a sob escapes her lips and she looks away, as if she can’t stand the sight of him. Panic seizes Sherlock at the thought that there is nothing he can say, nothing he can explain that will convince Molly not to throw him out and never let him in again, never _touch_ him again. This cannot happen. He has to try, he has to make her understand, gather his skill and his intelligence and think of something, yet when he opens his mouth, his mind draws a blank and his gut takes over.

 

“Irene and I spent an evening together in Karachi,” he blurts out.

 

“Get out, Sherlock,” she whispers, her tone heavy with disgust. “I don’t want to hear it any of it.”

 

“I know what she told you, or may have implied, but that evening -”

 

“Get. Out.”

  

“No, Molly, you have to listen, and then I’ll go if you want and I swear I’ll never bother you again, but please, let me finish.”

 

She glares at the floor but doesn’t say anything. He rambles on, knowing what little time he has.

 

“We went back to my hotel and had dinner in my room and then she – engaged me, for lack of a better term, but it was no good. I couldn’t let my guard down, I couldn’t take the risk. I never did, except with you, and now… now I can’t go back to the way it was before, and _you_ can’t. You _can’t_ , Molly, don’t you see that?” He is almost angry now, but pleading as well. “Don’t you see that it would be a lie? You’re right, you wouldn’t happy with someone like Simon Flaherty, you would only be pretending and me, I would be pretending that I don’t care, pretending the only reason why I can’t _stand_ it when you’re not around is because of work and convenience and habit, even though - even though…”

 

His throat is tightening, each word struggling to get out. But if this is what it takes, to lay himself bare before her, he will do it, a thousand times over.

 

“I do care, Molly. Not as a friend, not as a colleague, not as… anything I can make sense of, and more that I can express with words. I know I’ve hurt you, and I know apologies won’t fix it, but if you could just forgive my bluntness, my insensitivity, perhaps I could show you. I could show you that I care... in that way.”

 

Molly remains silent, teetering on the edge. She seems to have eluded his sensors, he can’t tell whether she’s more likely to pummel his face or fall into his arms, but in fact she does neither. She bursts into tears.

 

How do people do it, dealing with feelings on a daily basis? This is agony. Her grief is tearing him apart yet there’s nothing he can do. Should he leave? Try to embrace her? How can he possibly console her when he’s the reason why she’s crying?

 

And so he waits.

 

Every second is a small torture but he waits, and after a while her tears subside. After a longer while still, he draws closer, slowly, on the lookout for any sign that she might want him to stop. Finally, with immense precaution, he lays a hand on her arm, and moves it up to her shoulder. Molly wipes the wetness from her cheeks. He doesn’t speak; it’s for her to decide, to utter the verdict.

 

“No one else, then?” she murmurs.

 

Is she referring to his past or his future? It doesn’t matter, for it may as well be both. He gently strokes her shoulder with his thumb.

 

“No. No one else.”

 

Molly looks up at him, and whatever she sees in his eyes, it is enough, because he sees in hers that she believes him.

 

  
 

#

 

 

“Sherlock’s been gone for quite some time, hasn’t he?”

 

Mary finishes spreading a swath of night cream on her cheek and glances at John over her shoulder. The look on his face is as innocent as a puppy’s, but Mary knows him well enough to know better.

 

“And why should that concern us?”

 

“No reason.” He unbuttons his shirt and takes it off. “Only… perhaps we won’t see him return tonight.”

 

Mary sighs and sets to brushing her hair. “John, quit beating around the bush, will you?”

 

He clears his throat. “Well, I told you, he probably went to Molly’s place and, uh… if she found a way to forgive him, as his prolonged absence might suggest…”

 

She slams the brush down near the sink. “Please don’t tell me he’s trying to manipulate her again.”

 

“No, it was different this time. When I talked to him he seemed genuinely… distressed. Trust me, it happens so rarely that you can’t miss it when it does. It almost made me wonder… I mean, I’m fairly certain this was a first for him. That’s got to mean something, right?”

 

Mary rolls her eyes and exits the bathroom in a huff. John follows her into the bedroom and tries to pull her into his arms but she shrugs him off.

 

“Darling, I’m not asking you not to be mad at him,” he says. “What he did was crass and unkind. But suppose he really does have feelings for Molly...”

 

“Then he had better make a damn good job of proving it,” she replies, slipping under the covers. “And after that we’ll see.”

 

John smiles and bends over to kiss her. “You’re sexy when you act tough.”

 

Later, Mary lies in the dark, eyes open, as John sleeps soundly next to her. Acting tough is all well and good, but it’s a real burden to have to hide the giddiness bursting inside of her. She’ll have to keep it up for a while if she wants to appear credible, but the thrill of triumph, even when it’s kept secret, more than makes up for it. After all, she managed to succeed where so many brilliant minds have failed and outwit the great Sherlock Holmes.

 

What should she call herself? _The Matchmaker_? No, villains only have names in comic books. Besides, she doubts that real villains leave so much to chance. Irene Adler would no doubt scoff at her efforts, although if that cold-hearted bitch knew what a crucial role she played in getting Sherlock and Molly together, she wouldn’t laugh long. Mary needed a foil and Irene Adler provided one; without her, Molly would’ve never have found the strength to resist Sherlock. How far did it go? Mary’s not sure yet, she’ll have to ask Molly when she’s ready to talk. In any case, the irony is positively delicious.

 

Still, it could have very well ended in chaos, and guilt jabs at her when she thinks of what Molly must’ve endured, not to mention Simon, the innocent pawn thrown in the middle of the game, used for a higher purpose. Poor Simon. But then again, like so many others, like herself, he has the luxury of being able to find love and happiness most anywhere whereas _they_ do not.

 

Mary's known they were made for each other from the first time she met them – Molly, who under her run-of-the-mill pleasantness hides a highly uncommon personality, and Sherlock, so flagrantly dependent on her but too proud to admit it, even to himself – and she’d just been waiting for the right moment to steer them where they belonged. Infuriated as she was when Sherlock decided at the last minute not to come to that fateful dinner, it really was the perfect opportunity to put a plan in motion. Molly is so trustful, the dear, she would never have suspected behind Mary’s actions anything but a genuine intention to see her settled with a nice bloke.

 

As for Sherlock… Sherlock is a different story. For all his intelligence and insight into the criminal mind, he cannot for the life of him conceive that someone would be willing to go through all that planning and all that trouble out of generosity and not lust for power or money or revenge. It was a gratuitous act of affection born from a simple desire to help her friends, and because of this Mary knows she is safe from his suspicions.

 

Kindness has always been Sherlock’s blind spot, the great mystery that constantly eludes him, and in a way that’s quite sad. But perhaps now, Mary thinks as she closes her eyes and curls up close to John, now there is a chance that he will learn.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to everyone who left kudos or commented on this fic. It was pretty grueling to write, especially the last chapter, and I was overwhelmed by the positive feedback. There will be a sequel to this story, with more Mary and more John and more angst and sexy times for our favourite couple, so in case some of you feel I was too easy on Sherlock, believe me, his problems aren't over yet ;)


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